“Do you mind?” Jack reached into the pocket of the wind-breaker he was wearing, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, showed them to Henry.
“I don’t give a fuck if you smoke. I want you to tell me the truth.”
Henry stared at him as he lit the cigarette, took a puff and then another.
“Jack? I’m waiting. Or should I call you Thomas?”
“Call me whatever you like, Henry.”
“Are you going to tell me the truth?”
“Which truth?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means which truth? The truth the media puts out? The truth people want to believe? Or the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? It’s a strange word, isn’t it? Truth?” Jack inhaled again, deeply. Blew out the smoke, stared at it, flicked the still-burning cigarette into the fireplace. “The truth is, Henry . . .” He uncrossed his legs, sat forward. “I did something awful. Unspeakable. Monstrous. I can tell you that I was eleven years old and I didn’t know what I’d done. I can try to explain what happened. But that won’t make any difference, will it?
“The truth is I killed Amanda and Miranda Dunne and I went to prison for it. I was released from prison when I was eighteen and I was given a new identity. But I was found out. Someone recognized me and sold the story to the papers and they camped outside my flat and I was about to be strung up and lynched by a baying mob. But I was allowed to flee in the middle of the night and then I was given another identity—and guess what? The same thing happened. Someone recognized me and sold me out again. I had three identities, Henry. Three times I came close to being killed by some enraged member of the public. They finally realized I couldn’t live in the UK. My lawyer, well, she helped do a deal, a special deal, to get me here to America.”
If I could leave. If only I could leave this room now. If only Jack could disappear forever. I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t think I can continue to look at this man.
“That’s one truth. Another truth is that there is a justice system. And there is this theory about the justice system. The theory is that if you go to jail and do your time, you have paid your debt to society and are rehabilitated and let out to live the rest of your life. Except that’s not the truth. Because no one wants you to live your life when you’ve done what I’ve done. I can never repay the debt, Henry. I thought I could, with Holly and Katy. I really thought I could live a life and give them all my love and make up for the terrible thing I’d done. Why do they bother with this so-called truth of theirs, Henry? That’s what I want to know. Why do they tell you that you can be rehabilitated when they won’t let you be?”
“I want to know why you . . . why you killed those girls. Why, Jack? They were three years old. How could you possibly have killed them?”
“It was an accident, Henry. We were playing. Up in a tree-house in the back of my garden. I used to play with them all the time. Their mother came to clean our house and would bring them with her and on holidays from school, I played with them. They were like little sisters to me. I had my cricket bat. A new one I’d been given for my birthday. I was showing off, swinging the bat, and it flew out of my hand. I lost control and it slipped and it hit Amanda in the head. She fell down and didn’t get up. She wouldn’t get up. I kept trying to wake her up but I couldn’t. And Miranda started screaming and crying and I was so frightened, I hit her to stop her from screaming. I hit her. I wasn’t trying to kill her, Henry. I was trying to stop her crying. I expected them both to get up. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean to kill them. I was eleven years old.
“But I was this public-school boy. I was a choirboy, a privileged kid, from a privileged background. I hadn’t grown up on an estate or watched nasty videos. So I was evil incarnate. I was the devil in a choirboy’s robe. Everyone could hate me; everyone wanted to hate me. The only person who understood was Eliza McCormack. She was the only person who believed in me.”
“Your parents?”
“They disowned me. I had besmirched their good name, you see. My mother couldn’t go to the golf club any more. My father couldn’t keep his fancy job at his fancy bank. I ruined their lives. They wanted nothing to do with me.”
“They’re alive.”
“They’re alive. But as far as they are concerned, I’m not. I’m dead.”
“I can’t—” He shook his head.
“You can’t what, Henry?” Jack rose from his chair, came toward him, kneeled at his feet. “You can’t let me live my life? Every child psychologist in the country came to see me in prison. They all wanted to know why I’d done what I’d done. As if I had a reason. As if I’d planned it. I had shrinks, I had social services people, I had counselors. But the only person who ever made any sense was Eliza. She said the only way I’d have a fair trial was if I was judged by a jury of my peers. By a jury made up of other eleven-year-olds. Because they were the only ones who might know what would be going through my mind—my fear, my terror. Amanda wouldn’t wake up and Miranda was screaming and I was scared witless. I wanted her to stop screaming. I didn’t want to kill her. I hadn’t meant to kill Amanda. I didn’t even understand what death meant. I sat there in that tree-house afterward and waited for them both to wake up. They were supposed to wake up, Henry.”
Jack began to cry; he was looking up at Henry, his eyes imploring, tears dripping down his cheeks.
“They were supposed to wake up.” He threw himself forward, buried his head on Henry’s knees. Reaching out, Henry put his hand on Jack’s head.
An eleven-year-old boy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t have known or understood.
They sat, Jack sobbing on Henry’s lap, Henry patting his head, until the sobs started to slow down and Henry could feel Jack beginning to gain some control.
“I’m sorry.” Jack pulled back, wiped his face with the sleeve of his windbreaker. “I haven’t talked about it for a long time. I hate talking about it.”
Henry stayed silent until Jack composed himself, went back to his chair, pulled out his cigarettes again and lit up.
“Not exactly the fishing trip you’d expected, is it?” A thin smile appeared momentarily on his face before being replaced by a grimace. “I know this is a mess, Henry. I didn’t mean to get Holly involved. I walked away from her, as you know. And then you took me on that fishing trip and I saw her again and I knew I was in love. You know, Eliza once said to me, ‘Everything is redeemable.’ I thought she could be right. I thought I could be with Holly and Katy and redeem myself. And then Billy butted in—”
“This is not Billy’s fault, Jack.”
“I know, I know. But if he hadn’t—”
“You would have had to tell Holly anyway. You couldn’t live a lie like that with her.”
“I can’t tell Holly.”
“You can tell Holly. You have to tell Holly.”
“She’ll leave me. You know Holly. She would never be able to live with me knowing what happened.”
“She has to know.”
“And that will help? How? Holly’s still scared of some boy who might have stolen a bicycle once. You think she’d forgive me? People don’t forgive. Not something like this. It will kill her.”
“It won’t. She has to know.”
“She doesn’t. Billy will back off now. She doesn’t have to know. Knowing will only hurt her. We can be the way we were before. We can live here and be the way we were before.”
“You know that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a lie, Jack.” Henry sighed. He didn’t think he’d ever been as tired as he was now.
“So you don’t believe in rehabilitation? You don’t believe in second chances? I thought you believed in the law, Henry. I thought you believed in liberal causes.”
“I believe in the law. But I also believe in the truth. And you cannot live with Holly and Katy without Holly knowing.”
“You think I’d do something to Katy? Hu
rt her? Henry, you are so wrong.”
“You were out with her late that night on the beach and—”
“And I was playing catch with her. I wasn’t hurting her. Jesus.” Jack pitched the second cigarette into the fireplace. “You see what happens? You know about my past so you assume I’m going to do something evil again. And Holly will assume it too. Why didn’t they kill me when I was eleven? It would have been easier.”
“You have to tell her.”
“All right, all right. I’ll tell her. I’ll go over there now and tell her and ruin her life and mine at the same time.”
“You don’t have any choice, Jack.”
“Fine. I’ll do it. I have no choice.” He stood up. “I’ll come back when she throws me out of the house. I’ll come back and say goodbye to you and see if you feel better. And you can ring me when I’m gone and tell me if she is better off for knowing. Because she won’t be, Henry. She’ll be miserable and unhappy and she’ll hide away on Birch Point for the rest of her life. Is that what you want?”
“I want her to know the truth.”
“Yeah, right. It has nothing to do with the fact that you want to have them to yourself again, does it? You want to be the most important person in their lives.”
“You killed two children, Jack.”
“I was a child myself.”
“And Holly is my grandchild. Katy is my great-grandchild. I have to protect them.”
“From me. Of course.” He shook his head. “The Bad Boy, right? You have to save them from the Bad Boy.”
“I—”
“Forget it, Henry. I told you I’ll tell Holly. I’ll go back now and tell her.” He walked to the doorway. “You’ll probably hear her crying from here.”
“I’m coming with you.” Henry rose too, went to where Jack was, at the threshold to the hall. “I’ll be with you when you tell her.”
“I want to do it alone.”
“No. I’m coming with you.”
“Because you think I’ll run away without telling her.”
“Because she’ll need me there when she hears.”
“I don’t think so.”
Jack had turned, was heading back into the house, toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going? Jack?”
“We’re going fishing, Henry.”
“What?”
He had stopped at the back of the hall where the fishing gear and tackle box lay.
“What the hell are you doing? Come back here.”
He had crouched down by the tackle box, opened it.
“Leave that alone and come here. I mean it.”
He stood up again, turned to face Henry.
He was holding the fishing knife.
“For Christ’s sake—put that down.” Henry stepped back a pace.
It happened too quickly for him to react. Jack was suddenly running at him, had tackled him to the floor, was on top of him, sitting astride his chest.
He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Jack was kneeling on top of him; his weight was pinning him down. If he’d been younger; if he’d been stronger . . .
“Don’t, Jack,” he gasped.
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
But Henry saw the face looming above him: there was no emotion in it, only blank detachment.
“You don’t have to do this. This isn’t you. Put that knife down. Get off me. We can talk.” He was using what felt like the last bit of air left in his lungs to speak.
“Talking’s over, I’m afraid. I know you, remember? You’ll tell. You’ll tell because you think it’s the right thing to do.”
The knife was in the air; the knife was hovering in the air above him. Jack was waving it in a circle.
The game Isabella used to play with John when he was a toddler. She’d lean over John when he was in bed, wave her finger over his chest in a circular motion, saying, “Bore a hole, bore a hole, don’t know where. Bore a hole, bore a hole, right in . . . there!” and push her finger into his chest, John squealing that child’s squeal of fear mixed with delight.
The knife arced down. Henry closed his eyes against the excruciating pain, felt the steel twisting inside of him, tearing into him.
Not now. I can’t die now. I promised John and Julia. I can’t die now. Please. Holly . . .
“Katy.”
Chapter 26
The only way to tell them apart physically was the small birthmark on Amanda’s face, on her forehead, actually. A little red splotch. Otherwise they were identical. And Enid, their mother, used to dress them in the same clothes too. Which I personally thought was stupid. Because they were so different in personality. Totally distinct. So why dress them up like matching dolls, like two little Barbies in the same outfits? Sometimes I wondered whether Enid cared about them at all. She’d come over and clean and they were supposed to sit quietly and watch her. Or else she’d turn on the TV and put them in front of it. All they wanted to do was go outside and play but if I wasn’t there, I swear, she kept them locked up—prisoners. It was all wrong. I think she had them just to show off.
They were, as Holly would say, seriously cute. Tow-headed, I think it used to be called—you know, that super-blonde hair, flaxen almost. Lighter than Katy’s. Another way you could tell them apart was that Amanda used to suck her thumb, but Miranda didn’t.
And what’s that all about, anyway? Naming them like that? It’s like dressing them the same. If Enid had had her way she’d probably have given them both the same name. You know those cabs that have air fresheners in them, usually shaped like little Christmas trees? Enid smelled like those cabs.
But the girls didn’t. Amanda seemed younger than Miranda. More dependent. When I’d say, “Let’s go play outside,” Miranda was always, “Yes!” but Amanda would stand there sucking her thumb. So Miranda would go, “We’re playing. Now. Come on, Amanda.” Ordering her. Amanda did whatever her sister told her to. Within five seconds or so, she would be running around the garden laughing and chasing me, totally forgetting she was ever shy.
I saw Holly was shy the minute I sat down next to her on the bus. She blushed the biggest blush I’d ever seen. Nobody’s shy any more, Henry. Not the women I meet, anyway. They’re like Anna, you know. Brash and full of themselves and pushy. I’m not trying to big myself up here, but I can’t tell you how many women tried to hit on me when I was waiting on them. It was truly embarrassing. They think if they throw themselves at you, you’ll catch them. And that the easier they are to catch, the more you’ll like them. When I was let out of prison, I spent a few months up in Leeds, with my first new identity, hiding. That was the worst time. Getting used to being out but not being out. Because I’ve never really been out of prison. But my point is, in Leeds there were all these girls out on the streets on Friday and Saturday nights. In winter. Dressed in nothing, and I mean nothing. High, high heels. make-up plastered everywhere. And drunk. Totally slaughtered. Looking to get fucked. Sorry—but I know you’re OK with me saying that. And I kept thinking, What are they going to feel like tomorrow morning? Hungover, yes. But in the midst of that hangover, are they going to be proud of themselves? For getting fucked by some man who doesn’t give a shit? Would this be how they’d want their own children to behave?
Miranda had lipstick on that day. Can you believe that? Enid had given them both lipstick. Amanda hadn’t put any on, but Miranda must have spent some time in front of a mirror at her house because it was all neat and tidy and not smudged. “What are you doing, shrimp?” I asked her as soon as they came in. “What’s that junk on your face?” And she giggled and said, “Lisstick. Mummy gave it to me.” “Never too young to get the hang of make-up,” Enid said as she was taking off her jacket. I wanted to belt her. Miranda looked so fake. It was disgusting. Can you imagine Katy wearing lipstick? No way is that going to happen. “I don’t think the lipstick looks pretty on you,” I said to Miranda. Enid was out of the room then; she’d headed straight for the kitchen like she always did when she came in. Looking
back on it, I wonder if she was hitting the bottle. Making a beeline for the kitchen and tanking up before work.
It wouldn’t surprise me. She was all over the fact that my mother left me home alone sometimes. “You’re too young to be home alone,” she’d say and I’d say, “But I’m with you. Mummy knew you were coming so it was OK to leave me.” “OK.” She’d hunch her shoulders up and wrinkle her nose. “But what if I couldn’t make it today. Then you’d be alone.” “You’d call if you couldn’t make it,” I answered. “Right?” She looked at me like I was a smartarse she wanted to hate but couldn’t hate because my mother employed her. And because I played with her kids and they loved me.
They did love me. And no. Not in some perverse way. Ask the fucking coroner. It wasn’t like that. Never. They’d do finger-paintings for me at play school; once they insisted on bringing over those balloons like animals that you get at birthday parties. They wanted to give me the one that looked like a duck. I kept everything they gave me up in my room in case they ever asked to see. I didn’t want to hurt their feelings, throw something away that they’d given to me specially. Miranda was upset that I didn’t like the lipstick. She tried to get it off with the back of her hand, but it looked even worse then, so I took her into the loo and wiped it off for her with a washcloth. Amanda was with us, of course. She wanted me to wipe off her face too, so I did. Miranda wanted to be the only one who got her face wiped, but I couldn’t play favorites. I was really careful about that.
I didn’t tell you I have an older brother, did I, Henry? Nine years older. He did everything right. But don’t jump to any conclusions here. The shrinks in prison wanted to make a big deal of it too. When I was eleven, he was at Oxford, a scholar and a gentleman. They thought his success might have twisted me up somehow. But here’s the interesting bit: I did everything right too. Until I became a killer.
It was an incredibly sunny day. The weather had been terrible before; England at its worst. Rainy and cold and gray. But it changed overnight and the sun came out. Not unlike our wedding day, actually. Perfect. The girls came outside with me and I chased them around the garden for a while. They wanted to go up in the tree-house. At least Miranda did. Amanda was a little frightened by being up high: she’d get scared climbing the ladder. The tree-house was there when we moved in. My father would never have been able to make one. He wasn’t a DIY type of man. Notice I talk about him in the past tense? I figure if he ever talks about me, it would be in the past tense, so why shouldn’t I relegate him to the fucking grave too?
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